


Inheritance

by ftlow



Category: NCIS
Genre: Episode: s06e17 South by Southwest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-05 05:23:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16804459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftlow/pseuds/ftlow
Summary: Tag to Episode 6x17 South by Southwest: The continuous theme throughout of Tony's inheritance ends far too abruptly in this episode. There must be more to it... and who would Tony turn to, if not Gibbs? My version of what the London lawyer told Tony and why he lied. Featuring rules 4 and 13, plus others! Some swearing.





	1. Chapter 1

Gibbs heard the front door close quietly, the way only one of his regular visitors ever closed it, and waited patiently for the soft footsteps to cross the floorspace above him. His hand was wrapped comfortably around a mug of bourbon, and a jar half-full of the amber liquid sat on the cabin of the _Kelly_ too.

After this case, he'd been expecting his guest. The basement door fell open, painting a square of unnatural light on the steps as the expensive shoes began their steady descent.

"Hey, boss."

"Don't sit, DiNozzo. Poured ya some."

Gibbs was normally more than happy for his senior field agent to sit on the basement steps in silence, thinking through whatever he needed to think through, before leaving just as quietly. But this time, his gut told him – man of few words though he may be (or they both, in their own ways, be) – he needed to talk.

"Boss?"

"Ya did good, Tony. Figured you'd be round. C'mon." Gibbs pulled out a workbench and hastily blew the sawdust away. Slightly shaken by the use of his first name, Tony wandered over and perched on the edge, reaching for and worrying the jarful of liquor that had been waiting for him.

"Thanks," he mumbled, a little delayed.

The silence stretched on between them – comfortable, yet full of the unsaid. Gibbs drained his mug and stood, reaching for the varnish again to continue his ministrations on the cabin, and only once he'd put some distance between himself and the other man (which he knew his senior field agent would appreciate) did he break it.

"So. Ten k, huh?"

He had a feeling that this was what was bothering Tony. The case had been unusual, but there'd been no hints of anything wrong with his protégé until _that_ phone call came through.

Tony tensed and glanced away from the amber liquid. Gibbs wasn't looking at him, but was concentrating on the brush in his hand, and for that, the younger man was thankful.

"Yeah, plus interest. No biggie, but he could've forgotten it when he just inherited twenty-four mil." Tony smirked, and Gibbs smirked back.

"You'd think," he grimaced. "And he broke rule 13." He shuddered and put down his brush, reaching for another shot of bourbon. Tony stared at him for a second, and then laughed, placing his own drink delicately on the woodwork so he didn't slosh it. Gibbs gazed at him, slightly bemused, and decided to wait the fit out.

After Tony had quieted and they were once again shrouded in a comfortable atmosphere, Gibbs dared speak up again. "Ten k plus interest... You got it covered?"

Tony bristled. "I'm fine, boss. If all you wanted was to poke into my finances, I'll be off." He said coldly, setting down his drink a little harder than necessary and standing – a little stiffly, Gibbs noted with an inward smirk.

"Siddown, DiNozzo. I didn't mean anythin' by it. Anyway, pretty sure you brought yourself. I dint ask you over."

"Right, boss." Tony sat slowly, and then picked up his drink and inspected Kelly for injuries, thankful that he found none. He was aware, and slightly embarrassed, that his little fit of anger was really quite childish.

"Wanna tell me what that was about?" Gibbs asked.

"What are you now, my therapist?" Tony snarked back.

"No. I'm lookin' out for ya."

"Well cheers, boss, but I've been looking after myself for long enough. I can manage."

"Yeah, but ya can't print money. Ya need help, ask."

"And what, you'll bail me out like my uncle did?"

"Why not?"

Tony stuck his head in his hands. "I don't need your money, Gibbs." He told him through his palms. "M'fine."

"Then why's my gut screamin'?"

"Dinner time?" Tony snapped back sarcastically. Gibbs grinned.

* * *

The smell of steak permeated the house as Tony laid down his plate with a contented sigh, and then squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

"Still sore from the horses?" Gibbs shot at him with a smirk.

"Ya think?" Tony turned one of his boss's favourite sarcastic responses back on him, groaning slightly as he stretched.

Gibbs stood and collected the paper plates, folding them and chucking them unceremoniously in the trash. "So." He said as he pulled another couple of beers out of the fridge, twisting the tops off viciously. "Hunger dealt with. Still got somethin' naggin."

DiNozzo rolled his eyes. "'M fine, boss."

"S'what ya always tell me. Sorry if I'm not really believin' ya. We got different interpretations of 'fine'."

"Drop it, Gibbs." Tony's voice was uncharacteristically sharp as he lost his patience. "My finances are none of your business."

"Got that, DiNozzo. Don't want a full run-down of earnings and outgoin's. Just wanna know what's up with my gut." He paused. "And with my friend."

Tony ran a hand down the side of his face and sighed, more touched than he'd let on by the added part of his usually-mute boss's last statement. He knew he was being snappy, and he knew Gibbs wasn't being unreasonable – nor was he going to drop it until he knew what was going on. _One last try_ , he thought to himself.

"Look, boss, nice of you to offer to loan me the money and that, but that's kinda what got me into this mess, isn't it? I'll pay dear old Crispin, and I'll be fine. I got the money." There was a pause. "Plus if I needed a loan I don't think my boss who's also on a government salary is a fair place to start." Too late, Tony remembered that Gibbs had his military pension and very little in outgoings. He swallowed, hoping he hadn't seemed insensitive.

"S'not what I asked, DiNozzo. I'd lend ya it, if ya needed it, but ya don't. So what's…hinky?"

Fine. He won't be distracted. Tony frowned, barely noting Gibbs's use of Abby's term. "Guess I'm telling you then. Just don't do what I did to the probie, boss. McGemcity didn't deserve that."

"Ya wrote a book, DiNozzo?"

Tony snorted despite himself. "I'm not the typewriter sort, boss. Think I'd rather build a boat. Nah, I was just mean to the kid."

"You're always jokin' around Tony, but he knows you're kiddin'."

"I let his successful books and money change how I viewed him." Tony answered, intently studying the couch. He figured he might as well just get it out there.

"You came round." Gibbs answered, confused as to the conversation's direction. "Why'd I do that, anyway? Thought you were losin' money."

"I lied." Tony answered shortly, pulling his knees up to his chest. "Rule four."

"So you're gettin' your uncle's estate?" Gibbs was lost as to why his senior field agent was so tied up in knots.

"Some. Didn't lie about Crispin," Tony answered with a smirk. "He isn't too happy. And I do still owe him the ten k. The i.o.u was in his bit of the estate."

"So you do got the money to pay him, huh?" Gibbs clapped Tony on the shoulder. "Guess you get ya Ferarri after all."

Tony shook his head. "Nah. Too flashy."

"DiNozzo, Ziver and McGee ain't gonna act funny with ya just cause you got money."

"Maybe not," Tony conceded, "but I already lied. And it isn't them I'm worried about."

"Then why're you hidin' it?"

Senior will want it." Tony answered shortly, and pulled uncomfortably at the tie he still wore. He'd driven aimlessly for a while before heading to his boss's house, and he was still in his work clothes.

"He can't get it. Stick it in the bank or spend it, it's your money." Gibbs scrutinised Tony's face, wondering what was going on in his mind.

"Spend what I earn on this crap so he can't get it." Tony waved vaguely at his expensive suit, silk shirt and thin tie. Gibbs remembered noting a designer label on the shoes which were paired neatly by the sofa, somewhere underneath the sock-clad feet currently resting on his upholstery. "Don't save. Be screwed if I lost my job. Lucky Clive left me money to pay the ten k with. But Senior'd be all over it if he knew."

"Tony." Gibbs shifted, sinking down on the couch next to his – hell, probably his closest friend, finally understanding his extravagant taste, extensive movie collection and regular holidays. "You're a grown man – hell, you never even see your dad. That money is yours. He can't get it."

"He can, he does, and he will. Benefits of having the same name, a lotta charm and some backdoor favours owed to him." Tony shrugged. "Hated that I treated Timmy differently. Just like my dad. Couldn't help it though. Guess you learn by observation."

Gibbs's very small reservoir which he kept his anger in was slowly boiling over. This kid's dad was stealing his money? How was he getting away with that – and why was DiNozzo letting him?

"We can get him put away for this, DiNozzo." He barely concealed his rage.

Tony shook his head, sticking his feet back on the floor. "He's still my dad, boss. Well, no. He's still my father. Think I'm accustomed to the lifestyle now anyway," he tried weakly, lifting his tie and waving it. "Don't want to get him locked up."

Gibbs sighed. He wasn't going to argue, but he was seriously considering paying the man a visit. He was pulled out of his thoughts when Tony carried on talking.

"Fewer people know about it, least likely he is to find it."

"Rule four." Gibbs agreed.

"Guess I'm just a bit stuck with what to do with it. Can't spend it, can't keep it. Charity maybe?"

"Twelve mil, DiNozzo?"

"Six," Tony corrected quickly, looking up at Gibbs and then away, almost ashamedly. The silence stretched until Gibbs quirked an eyebrow and repeated his question.

Tony sighed. "Yeah, boss. What else do I do?"

Gibbs thought for a bit. "Maybe buy a place outright, stop rentin'. New car – not flashy, just new. New TV…" He trailed off, realising that it was a lot harder to just spend six million dollars than he'd expected.

"Why not," DiNozzo nodded. "Give the old ones to people who need 'em. Never know where the money's going." Tony chose not to remind Gibbs that he already paid a mortgage, not rent.

Gibbs smiled at the philanthropist he knew Tony to be, and decided to risk another question. He stood, taking the empty beer bottles to the kitchen and pulling two more out of the fridge. While he was facing away from the Italian sat on his couch, so the kid had time to react unobserved if he wanted, he spoke. "When did this start?"

A fairly long silence followed that question, during which Tony froze and then hurriedly put his mask back in place, and Gibbs carried beers – the tops of which he'd already removed while he gave DiNozzo recovery time – back to the coffee table. Only once they were both seated on the couch again did Tony speak.

"Always happens, always did." He mumbled. "Mom wouldn't have a joint account with him cause she knew he'd spend it all, and that got him angry. He figures that my money's his cause I cost 'em so much growing up, with boarding school and that. Senior thinks everyone should share with him, but he should share with no-one."

"You choose boardin' school, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, plucking his beer from the table. Tony shook his head, and Gibbs inwardly rolled his eyes. "Huh. Screwed-up thinkin'." He raised an eyebrow, and Tony shrugged in response.

"He isn't gonna stop. Money's everything to him, but it also has no value. He isn't gonna get to a point and decide he's taken enough from me. Mom's money gave him a skewed -"

Tony cut himself off suddenly. Gibbs glanced up, seeing a look of slight shock on his agent's face. "Never heard much about your mom." Gibbs prompted, and a glassy-eyed Tony shook his head.

"What the hell. Already spilled my guts. Can't do any harm," he mumbled again, and then spoke a bit louder. "Don't talk about her much, boss. She was amazing. Brilliant mom. Senior adored her, when he was sober. She never let anything get her down. Just wish she didn't die so young." Gibbs thought he detected a hint of bitterness.

"She sounds great," he said carefully. "How did you lose her?"

"She died doing what she loved," Tony answered. "She was an actress. She was rehearsing for an action film, and some crazy fan shot her. Like McGee's guy, who recreated his whole book that time, with the javelin. They never released the film."

Gibbs was coming to a realisation. "Your mom…was Rosa Paddington? The child star?"

"You remembered Uncle Clive's surname, boss. Good memory."

Gibbs sat back against the sofa cushions. "Wow," he mumbled. "I remember watchin' it on the news. Never knew she had…well, you."

"She was private," Tony nodded. "She grew up in front of the cameras, and she learned to keep her life off of them. Cause of senior. His tantrums probably would've cost her her career – and all he wanted was her money. That's why he's living the showbiz life now. He did love her, in his own way. Sorta."

"That's why you love films. And became a cop," Gibbs thought aloud, and Tony nodded. "She left her money to you?" Gibbs asked, realising when senior's stealing started.

"Every penny," Tony answered shortly. "Told Senior in her will she loved him, but he had to learn that money wasn't everything. He kinda went off the deep end then. Money went in one of those trust funds for me to access at eighteen. Senior used some of it to pay for my school, and the rest for his 'work'."

"How much?" Gibbs barely breathed. Tony almost missed it, but he answered anyway, figuring it couldn't do much harm.

"Sixty-eight mil. Went to pay for Vegas with the frat guys after college, it was empty. Clive lent me some for the holiday and to get my leg fixed up, and then I just relied on wages." Tony paused. "Tried saving for my own place for a while, but that started going missing too, and the banks all said _I'd_ withdrawn it." He shrugged. "Never used to dress like this. Blew a load on an engagement ring and then started on the designer clothes in Baltimore. Medical insurance helps too."

Gibbs's eyebrows shot up at the mention of an engagement ring, but at the look on Tony's face, conceded that tonight wasn't the time to ask about that – he'd been giving enough personal information out. Gibbs tried to keep a hold of his anger once more, and struggled through his next question.

"When was the last time…?"

Tony smiled ruefully. "Hasn't been much to take recently. No point." He lifted a shoulder. "One day maybe he'll run out for good and get himself into trouble stealing from someone else." He paused for thought. "Or maybe he'll get me into trouble for stealing."

There was a long silence, and it was Tony who filled it. "Hey boss. Did ya call him when I was sick?"

Gibbs smirked. "Which time, DiNozzo?"

"Point, boss." Tony looked slightly abashed, but smiled. "When I got the plague."

Gibbs stilled, trying to swallow in his suddenly dry throat. "Yeah, I called him," he answered cautiously, realising it may not have been his best decision. "Dint know how much ya dint get along. And that kid that broke ya leg, he said – he said -"

Tony's mind ran a sombre and a funny thought alongside each other, causing him to struggle over whether or not to laugh. _Only Gibbs could remember that doctor as the one that broke my leg, rather than the one with the same name as a famous actor._ Was on one side of his mind, while on the other – _I've never seen Gibbs lost for words before, or no more than usual. This is gonna be bad._

Gibbs took a deep breath. "He said you had a few hours. Ducky was mentally preparing to do your autopsy. Kate was in pieces." Tony's mouth hung open at that; he hadn't known how sick he was. "Figured at the time your dad should see ya. Mighta bin his last chance."

Tony snorted. "He'd probably have bin pleased if it was. He'd get my insurance payout. Line of duty and all that."

Gibbs shook his head. "He might be a bastard, DiNozzo, but he'd grieve if ya died. Guess I got the wrong number anyway, he can'ta got the message."

Tony laughed bitterly, then took a few more swigs of his almost-empty beer. "Nah, he got the message alright. All my accounts were empty by the time I got outta the hospital and healthy again. Every last one."

Gibbs sat in uncharacteristic shocked silence for a moment. "He…he never visited? Called?"

"Nah. Just took the money." Tony answered, draining his bottle. He jumped as Gibbs slammed his own empty bottle on the coffee table, and then his fist next to it.

"Bastard." He swore.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony woke luxuriously in the morning, stretching and opening his eyes to bright sunshine. When that fact registered, he panicked and threw himself upright, looking for his clock.

The room didn't have one.

Tony's sleep-befuddled brain slowly caught up and he realised he was in Gibbs's spare room. He swung his legs out of bed and stood, heading to the wardrobe and pulled on some old NIS sweats and a jumper over the boxers he'd slept in, as he had the other times he'd stayed. He headed downstairs, rubbing his face with his hand and trying to solidly pat himself awake.

"'Bout time DiNozzo. Thought I was goin' without ya." Gibbs shoved some coffee – black, of course – and scrambled egg towards his senior man, smirking at the way his hair stuck up at odd angles.

"We late, boss?" He asked sleepily, taking a sip of coffee and grimacing.

"Nah, it's not our weekend on," his boss answered, giving in and fetching the milk from the fridge.

"Going where without me then?" Tony dug into his breakfast with gusto.

"Bank," Gibbs grunted. He fished some aspirin out of the kitchen cupboard and threw them at Tony, who yelped and dropped his fork to catch them. Gibbs turned his back to wash his mug, ears straining to hear the popping sound of tablets leaving their foil wrapper.

For his part, Tony was surprised. He popped two and washed them down with his coffee. "How'd you know?" He asked, throwing the blister pack back.

"Egg," Gibbs gestured. "Ya like it more hung over."

Tony blinked, surprised. "Oh," he managed, then shoved in another mouthful. Then he froze.

"Er, boss."

"Yeah DiNozzo."

"Did you say bank?"

"Yep." Gibbs left his mug upside-down on the drainer and sat across from Tony, who raised both eyebrows, ate his next two mouthfuls a little more sedately, and laid down his cutlery.

"Look, boss," he said after a silence in which Gibbs sat breathing in the coffee fumes. "Thanks for listening and not changing your opinion of me and that, but... I didn't tell you so you could do anything. Hell, I only told you that much cause I don't do so well with beer _and_ bourbon."

Gibbs took the paper plate and tossed it, throwing the fork at the sink. "I know that," he answered.

"Then why you taking me to the bank?"

"To get some money. I gotta get some stuff for the boat. You can tell 'em not to allow any withdrawals while we're there."

Tony frowned. "You need to go to the bank to buy stuff for the boat?"

"Outta cash," Gibbs grunted.

"You don't have a card, boss?"

"Nah."

Tony stayed tactfully silent while he finished his breakfast. Gibbs appraised him and announced that they would go via Tony's apartment for some clothes.

* * *

"You wanna just drop me off, boss?" Tony asked as they pulled up near his apartment in the short stay area.

Gibbs raised his eyebrows at his senior field agent. "We're goin to the bank, Tony. Hurry the hell up or you'll owe me a parkin' fine." He looked away, ending the conversation.

Tony sighed, got out, and jogged up the sidewalk to the stairs up to his building. He made it up to his apartment, changed, brushed his teeth, sprayed deodorant around himself, and made it back to the car with two disposable cups full of coffee in record time.

Gibbs sniffed appreciatively and took a swig. "I gotta get some cups like these," he said by way of a thank you, and pulled back into moving traffic.

* * *

Tony hung around in the waiting area while his boss made his withdrawal, trying not to look at how much his boss was shoving into his jacket as he left the counter. Money made him uncomfortable.

"Done," Gibbs grunted. "You spoken to anyone?"

Tony was momentarily disoriented. "Uh…no, boss. I don't bank here. Got no accounts here."

Gibbs mentally headslapped himself. "Where we goin then?"

Tony gestured, and they walked together into the sunlight. He led Gibbs through a few rights and lefts, navigating faultlessly to the correct bank. They walked in comfortable silence until Tony hesitated in the doorway.

"What, DiNozzo?"

"I dunno boss. I can't just stop all withdrawals or I won't be able to do anything with it. And Senior has people high up in the bank on his side, he must do."

Gibbs did not reply immediately. He had an expression he wore when he was about to make a connection in a case. Tony watched, secretly fascinated.

"So he's got help from high up. But he's only not bin caught because you got the same name."

"Yeah," DiNozzo responded.

"Then change your name," Gibbs said. Tony stared at him.

"But… I like my name."

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Not completely. Just add a middle name or somethin'."

"Got one. Same as Senior's," Tony answered with a hint of bitterness.

"Change it. Add one," Gibbs shrugged. "Or add a signatory to your accounts."

Tony thought about that for a moment. "Boss, can we go where you need to go first? I gotta think about that a bit."

Gibbs shrugged. "Long as we're not losing time. Time is money in this case." He smirked a little, but his suspicions were confirmed when Tony only smiled distractedly at his crack. Normally he'd have congratulated him on having a sense of humour, however bad the joke was. He nodded to himself and strode off, leading the way to his usual suppliers for boat materials. Tony trailed him, chewing his lip and with eyes unseeing.

* * *

"Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs Gibbs!"

The excited and familiar tone drew Tony out of his reverie and he looked up and blinked. He was surrounded by metal shelves filled with wood, varnish, screws, tools, paint, plants, soil, glue, pipes, light bulbs and every other item required for DIY that he could think of, as well as some he could not. He had absolutely no idea where he was.

Tony looked in the direction of the sound to see Gibbs – his arms full of pots, brushes and wooden pegs – being hugged by a tall, black and red figure with a black lace parasol.

Hurrying forward, Tony caught two brushes and a pot of black paint as they toppled from between the two familiar figures and scooped up a third brush that he missed. He grinned at the forensic scientist who still had yet to let go of their boss.

Seeing another item wobble in Gibbs's grip, Tony cleared his throat, amusement on his face.

"Hey Abbs," He said.

The effect was instantaneous. She turned to him with a squeal of delight and slammed into him a second later, and Tony chuckled into her ear. She released him quickly and turned to them both, eyeing the items now split between them.

"Are you spending the weekend together?" She asked with a smirk, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

"So far," Tony chuckled. Abby swatted his chest.

"You keep your hands off my silver-haired fox, DiNozzo, or I will leave absolutely no forensic evidence of your castration."

Gibbs's eyes crinkled and Tony held the paint pot in front of his crown jewels. Abby smiled sweetly at him and turned to Gibbs.

"Bossman, I'm making a stand for Jethro's food and water bowls. Which metal do you think?"

"I work with wood, Abbs. Can't you just buy a stand?"

"But I love homemade." She threw him a dazzling smile. "Come on Gibbs, just pick some colours. I've already designed it."

Gibbs gave in, gestured with his full hands to a couple of sheets and tubes, and kissed his favourite team member on the cheek. "See ya Monday Abbs."

Tony followed him to the paying point, waving to Abby with his free hand. She gave him a warning look and signed something to Gibbs, who snorted.

"What did she say?" Tony asked.

"Look after you, but not your libido." Gibbs said crisply, and Tony choked. "She notices stuff, Tony. She knows there's somethin up. The last bit's a joke."

Tony recovered with a joke in mind. "So that means you can do both then?" He asked seriously, and burst out laughing when Gibbs looked at him, wide-eyed. "Sorry boss. Kidding." He turned to look at the cashier. "Pay the lady." He added, and Gibbs shook himself into movement, delivered a swift headslap and handed over some of the cash he'd withdrawn earlier.


	3. Chapter 3

"You're quiet," Gibbs observed much later as the two men cleared their Chinese and tossed the cartons.

  
"You just broke a silence, boss," Tony smirked. "That's a first."

  
"I also found a Chinese takeout open before noon on a Saturday," Gibbs shrugged. Tony murmured an agreement, and the silence stretched again.

  
"DiNozzo," Gibbs said eventually.

"Yeah, boss." Tony sat up straighter.

"I broke the silence for a reason."

  
"Right." Tony paused. "Er, what was it?"

  
Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Tryna start a conversation, DiNozzo."

"Right, Boss."

There was another pregnant pause and Gibbs huffed. "Today," He grumbled.

Tony swung himself out of his chair, grabbed two brown beer bottles out of the fridge, and twisted the tops off, and sat again. It was all one fluid and surprisingly elegant movement. Then he sighed deeply.

"I'm gonna legally change my name," He said quietly. "Just add a name in. And… and if it's okay with you, I want to make you a signatory on my accounts."

  
Gibbs blinked, then gave him the same hard stare that they all received when they weren't getting to the point of a case update fast enough.

Tony talked faster. "So any transaction that isn't made on my card – any cash withdrawals or movements of money – needs us both to be there. So it's not just a new name, it's two names and two people that have to be involved."

  
Gibbs lifted an eyebrow. "You sure?" He asked slowly, realising that this was a pretty big level of responsibility he was being given. Tony nodded, and there was a long, comfortable silence.

* * *

"We gotta go, Tony. Banks shut soon."

Tony looked up, jolted out of his reverie. "Coming, boss." He hesitated. "Er, can I just ring Ziva?"

  
Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Be in the car." He stood and went to find his keys.

Tony took a deep breath, and flipped up his phone, stabbing speed-dial before he could change his mind.

"It is the weekend, Tony," Ziva greeted him tetchily.

"Well, hello to you too, sweetcheeks," he muttered.

  
Tony heard Ziva sigh. "Sorry. What do you need?" She asked.

  
"Erm. A name. Your favourite Hebrew name. For a guy."

Ziva paused a moment. "Why?" She asked.

"I'll explain another time. In person."

Ziva considered for a second, then said, "Asher. It has connotations with the olive tree, which reminds me of Israel. It is a happy name, meaning blessed or fortunate."

Tony considered a moment. Then he smiled. "Thanks, Ziva. Can I come by tomorrow?"

"Sure. Bring some food. I will cook." Ziva hung up in her usual style, and Tony stood and paced steadily out to the car.

* * *

"You just need to bring this back, filled in, with at least two forms of photographic ID and at least one more with your address on it. You'll have to pay $390 and the proposed change will go up on the wall here." The suited man behind the desk waved at a wall of paper notices. "Then there will be a court hearing scheduled and, if there haven't been any problems raised, it will all go quite smoothly. You'll need to get all your IDs changed, of course."

  
Tony gripped the form tightly. "Can anyone object? What are reasonable grounds?"

The suit looked between Tony and Gibbs, who was hovering a few feet closer to the door, but he didn't seem to know what to say. "Er… if you owe anyone money, or if you breach copyright laws with your new name, or… is there any example you could give?" He asked, seeming at a loss.

Gibbs spoke up. "Could a family member cause any problems?"

The suit pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. "They have no further, and no fewer, rights than a member of the public. If there is a legitimate reason for them to dispute the name change, they can dispute it. If not, they can't."

Tony nodded. "Thanks." He shook the man's hand and turned away, pacing past all the wood panelling and over the marble floors, and emerging – with Gibbs falling into step beside him – into the sun.

The bank had accepted Gibbs as a signatory and taken all the required information. They had agreed to hold the incoming funds until the changes took effect. Tony had waited with bated breath for someone to tell him he couldn't make the change, or couldn't add someone, or that there was an issue with his account – but everything had gone smoothly. So smoothly that he was worried. Now, he had a simple few pages of paperwork in his left hand that just needed filling in and, in theory, it would take just a few weeks to add another name to his three and add an extra layer of security to his money.

It felt too good to be true. It felt too easy.

* * *

"So, ya picked a name change?" Gibbs asked, putting his mug of bourbon down and plugging again at the sander.

  
Tony nodded. "I'm gonna change my middle name. And my initials," he answered. "It will go from ADD to AAD."

"Ziva?" Gibbs asked without really asking anything, in true Gibbs fashion.

"She picked it, yeah." Tony shifted self-consciously. "Asher. She said it was a happy name, it had good connotations. Seems fitting."

  
Gibbs stopped sanding, propped his chin on his hand and turned the power of his icy blue eyes on Tony. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded. "It's a good choice. Initials change enough for banks, but not enough for most folks to notice. Good name. Means somethin."

  
He turned back to his work, and Tony let out a shaky breath. He hadn't realised how much he'd counted on Gibbs's approval.

After a silence, followed by a rambling about films which included tenuous connections to identity theft and name-changing (very tenuous, since Calamity Jane made it into the list), Tony stood.

"I should probably head out, boss. Thanks for everything."

Gibbs looked up. He nodded. "Glad ya trust me, DiNozzo. See ya Monday." He looked back down to his sander, and Tony grinned. His boss was so easy to get along with.

He fished about for his keys and headed out to the car, careful to pull the door properly closed behind him.

* * *

Ziva hovered over the button for the fourth time in as many minutes and eventually pressed call. She put the phone to her ear and listened to it ring.

  
"Hey," Tony's voice met her ear a couple of moments later. It was loud but bizarrely

muffled.

"Tony. Are you alright?" She asked.

"Yeah, I'm driving home," Tony called above the engine noise. "What's up?"

  
"Nothing is up." Ziva replied. "I am just curious. You want to detour?"

"To yours?" Tony asked. "Sure." He glanced at the sun which was creeping towards the horizon. "You still got that toothbrush I left that time?"

"Yes." Ziva smiled a little. "I am too impatient to wait until tomorrow."

  
"On my way." Tony cut the call and Ziva threw her phone onto the chair in the corner. She got up to put the door to her apartment on the latch, so Tony could let himself in, and went to open a bottle of wine.

As Ziva sat back down, two glasses and the bottle being deposited on the table in front of her, she thought about her sister. Tali was the best of all of them, she had meant that when she told Tony about her after he'd tailed her to that hotel. She would not have made it through the training she and her brother had undertaken. She was an artist – a poet, a painter, a dancer, a singer.

  
Across the hall and a door down had lived Asher. He was a bright little boy, upon whom Tali doted. She would take him to the markets, walk him to school, and sit with him when his mother could not. He was quiet, but always smiling. He had an affinity for animals; he had once walked all the way to their apartment with a hoopoe on one shoulder and a gecko in his breast pocket. Ziva closed her eyes and smiled as his little face filled her vision, his hand gripping Tali's and his eyes full of curiosity.

  
Tony entered quietly, closing the door behind him and clicking the latch off, and smiled to see Ziva looking so peaceful. He knew she had heard him, though. She always did.

  
"Hey, my ninja."

Ziva's eyes opened and she smiled. "Hello Tony." She indicated the sofa and the wine and he sat, smiling back. "How strange for us to get no callouts on our weekends off," she said, pouring Tony's glass and handing it over.

  
"It is. I couldn't wait until Monday to see you again. A whole two days would have been far too long," Tony joked, studying the deep reddish liquid which left a clear liquid residue inside the glass.

  
"Can't you cope without me, my little hairy butt?" Ziva clicked her glass to his, smirking, and he grinned.

  
"Can't live with you, can't live without you." He winked and took a sip, savouring the taste for a moment before swallowing. "What were you thinking about when I came in?"

  
"Asher," Ziva replied. She took a sip of her wine and placed it on the table. Then she talked. She talked about Tali, about Asher, about Tel Aviv, about dancing, about the animals Asher brought home or visited or tamed or healed. She told him about the Hamas suicide bomber who killed them both.

  
This kind of talking had become normal for them. McGee had his writing, Abby had her nuns, Gibbs had his boat, Ducky and Jimmy were like father and son, but Ziva and Tony had unhealthy outlets. Tony's aerobic exercise and Ziva's combat training, while both important skills, were not good methods of catharsis, and so – after a bad case, or some bad news, or an anniversary – they met, shared a bottle of wine, and talked. The running and fighting came after, but they did themselves less damage than they might otherwise. Nobody at work seemed to have any idea just how much they leaned on each other.

  
After Ziva had talked herself into silence and onto Tony's shoulder, he wiped away a single tear from her cheek and snagged her glass of wine, handing it over. She drank half in one large sip, and then smiled a wobbly smile at her partner.

  
"Your turn," she whispered, settling back into his side.

"Tomorrow." Tony nodded to the stars visible through the window and then held her closer. "I am holding you to that promise of dinner."


	4. Chapter 4

Tony woke slowly and luxuriously. He breathed in a familiar scent and rolled his head towards it, nuzzling into his partner’s haphazard curls. A smile stretched across his face.

“Finally,” came a voice dripping in sarcasm and still gruff with sleep. “You have been snoring for hours.”

“You snored first and for longer,” Tony sighed. “I was still awake at four.”

“It is my apartment, and my bed, Tony,” Ziva groused, and lifted her head. Tony groaned as blood reached his fingers for the first time in at least an hour and pain lanced up his arm.

He sensed movement and opened his eyes for the first time just as the wind was knocked out of him. He blinked at the deep chocolate irises above him. “Morning,” He managed around the weight on his midsection.

“Am I heavy, Tony?” Ziva asked, almost nose-to-nose.

“Yep. All muscle,” he huffed. “And your morning breath stinks.”

Ziva chuckled and rolled off him, onto her feet. “As does yours.” She prodded his stomach, then pinched. “You are not all muscle, however.” She winked and walked away, into the bathroom. Tony’s eyes followed her figure, which was clad in only shorts and a tank top. He sat up, wiggling the fingers on his right hand, and fluffed his pillow back to its original state. He leaned over to do the same with Ziva’s and was surprised to find nothing beneath it.

“Thought you packed heat, sweetcheeks.” Tony slid into the small bathroom behind Ziva, who growled at him through a mouthful of toothpaste, and reached for his toothbrush. Ziva spat into the sink with feeling and punched him on the shoulder, and he choked slightly on the raw toothpaste he’d just put in his mouth. He shrugged and brushed while Ziva wiped her mouth disgustedly on her towel and threw a clean one at him, stalking out of the bathroom.

Quietly, Tony finished his teeth and poked his head back into the bedroom in time to see Ziva checking under her pillow for her service pistol. Silently chuckling, he threw some water on his face and dried it, then sauntered back into the bedroom and reached for his jeans.

“If you plan to wear the boxers you wore yesterday and slept in last night _again_ , you have another thing coming,” Ziva interrupted grimly.

“I didn’t plan for a stopover,” Tony shrugged, and stuck one foot in his jeans.

A ball of fabric bounced off his head. His hand shot to where his glock would usually sit and patted his bare waist as he looked from the threat – Ziva, of course – to the missile to see…

“Are these mine?” He bent swiftly and retrieved a clean pair of boxers, brandishing them at a smirking Israeli.

“You left them. I washed them. I was waiting to return them at the office at a suitably…embarrassing…moment.”

“You are sneaky, my ninja.” Tony moved to strip his boxers off, and Ziva made a loud noise of protest and turned away. “I will wait until you’ve gone if you tell me where your gun is.” He stopped, thumbs tucked in his waistband.

Ziva struggled with herself for a moment. “Well then, I must have… left it…” She gestured at the living room.

“You never leave it,” Tony answered, shimmying his boxers down. Ziva huffed and looked at the ceiling.

“Then I suppose you make me feel safe,” she mumbled, still studying the spot above her bed as she spoke. Tony yanked the clean boxers on and grinned.

“Rosy cheeks are a good look on you.” He bumped her shoulder and she elbowed him in the stomach. While he was doubled over, groaning, she slipped past him and left the room.

Tony grinned. This platonic closeness, having someone that close without it having to mean anything – that’s what he craved. That’s what made him and Ziva such an effective team.

* * *

"So.” Ziva laid her bowl, no longer filled with muesli, fruit and yoghurt, on the coffee table. “Asher.”

Tony put his plate aside and chewed the last bit of his muffin. “I’m still Tony,” he answered.

“…I know.” Ziva raised an eyebrow. “Are you changing your name?”

“Erm. Yeah. Just my middle name.” Tony scratched at a mark on his jeans.

“Asher,” Ziva nodded. “Why?”

“Dad.” Tony glanced up into her dark, curious eyes and held his breath while he gathered some courage. “We have identical names. First, middle last. And he has… friends… in high places.”

Ziva tucked one foot underneath herself. “You wish to dissociate?”

Tony chuckled. “Not exactly. Just…make stuff harder for him. I mean he disowned me when I was twelve, not much more dissociation to do really. But… my wages are split down more than yours. I get paid weekly. So there isn’t loads at once in my bank account. And I buy… stupid, expensive stuff.” He waved a hand at his designer shoes sat neatly by the door. “Just so I use it, instead of…”

“He takes your money?” Ziva asked in a dangerously low voice. Tony shrugged helplessly. “You are changing your name so your father does not steal your money.”

It wasn’t a question, so Tony didn’t answer. He waited until the silence became uncomfortable and then stood, taking the plate and bowl into the kitchen and cleaning them, and tidying away the food items and juice carton left out from making breakfast. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as Ziva took some deep breaths, forcing herself to relax.

“He is always so…”

“Charismatic?” Tony jerked his chin. “How did you think he got away with it? He’s been doing it all his life.”

Ziva slammed the flat of her hand on the coffee table and let out a long breath. Tony jumped and looked at her with wide eyes. He hadn’t expected such a reaction out of her.

* * *

"You fetch some vegetables. I will get ingredients for challah.” Ziva turned away, only to turn back and glare at Tony as he called after her in his best English accent:

“How awfully domesticated we are, sweetcheeks,” he smirked as he turned away and

sauntered over to the vegetables.

“Man whore,” a familiar voice came from over his shoulder. He turned to see a grinning, black-clad Abby Scuito.

“Am not,” he raised an eyebrow at her, then smiled, threw his arms around her and lifted her, twirling.

“Point proven!” She prodded his ribs as he set her back down, an even wider smile gracing her face.

Ten minutes later, Tony was still listening to Abby’s motormouth and idly wondering how many caf-POW’s she had consumed on her day off when Ziva appeared behind him.

“Tony, have you… Abby!”

Abby looked between the two of them and Ziva’s full shopping basket, an impossibly wide smile cracking her face. “Hey Ziva.”

Tony shifted from one foot to the other and sighed. “Don’t even go there Abbs.”

“Go where?” Ziva asked. “Do you need back up?”

“Figure of speech, Zi,” Tony said without taking his eyes off the madly smirking forensic specialist. “Abby thinks we are secretly dating.”

A moment of silence passed and then Ziva snorted and laughed loudly. Abby looked slightly crestfallen, but punched Tony on the arm anyway.

“Right, I gotta get back, I’m meant to be buying buffet food for the bowling tournament and some vegetables to make soup for the kitchen,” she rabbited. Tony dug in his wallet and handed her two twenty dollar bills. “Are you paying for my silence?” She asked, grinning and snatching them out of his hand.

“No.” Tony rolled his eyes. “I am making a donation.”

Abby ducked down a little and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” She hugged Ziva, spun around so her pigtails flew, and disappeared around a corner.

“She is made of pure energy,” Ziva said fondly, and took Tony’s hand. “Come. Vegetables.” She tugged, and Tony followed quietly.

The shopping was over quickly after that, and they loaded Ziva’s Mini with the groceries. Tony graciously offered to take her to lunch at a little café – nothing heavy, he assured her, just a bite to eat before their much later dinner. She acquiesced and let him lead her to a bistro with outdoor and indoor seating, and perused the menu while surreptitiously observed their surroundings, a habit from her Mossad training which had served her well and which she’d been unable to kick. She did not mention a silver-haired, familiar figure walking into a bank which – she would have bet a year’s salary – he did not use.

* * *

Tony shifted his weight quietly from foot to foot, letting Ziva’s beautiful voice wash over him as she chanted. _She can probably sing, really bloody well,_ he thought to himself.

He accepted the cup of wine Ziva passed to him with a simple inclining of the head, took a sip, and handed it back. In companionable and respectful silence, they washed their hands, and then Tony sat, accepting a salted piece of challah with a smile. After relaxing into his seat and chewing the braided bread, which Ziva had sweetened with sultanas and a small amount of sugar, he spoke quietly.

“Your voice is wonderful.”

Ziva blushed and continued to chew.

Their meal passed comfortably, with Tony asking some questions about aspects of the meal that he hadn’t thought of before. The stew-like meat course was flavoursome and he savoured every mouthful. Its preparation caused another question to float to the forefront of his mind.

“Isn’t Shabbat a bit like the Sabbath?” He asked. “Are you…supposed to prepare this?” He indicated his plate and the challah. Ziva smiled, tearing herself a braid of the bread.

“No,” she answered simply. “But since joining Mossad, I have found it almost impossible to ensure I do not work from Friday evening until Saturday evening, and NCIS is no different. Just as I rarely attend the Synagogue, I work when I should not. My religion is important to me, but I take many liberties with it. Its traditions are more of a comfort than anything.”

She smiled warmly at Tony, who smiled back a little uncertainly. He knew he had shown contempt for her religion and others in the past, just as he had McGee’s book-based success. He wondered if her honesty was an attempt to counter that.

The rest of the meal passed with little conversation, both agents simply observing the other in the candlelight. Ziva sang quietly after all plates were clear, and Tony closed his eyes, not minding that he didn’t understand - just letting the words flow through him, like poetry. He thought again about his past disdain for religion, examined it, and stored away his distaste at his actions.

Afterwards, they cleared away the pots together, and Tony - coming out of his chant-induced reflection - joked again about their domestication. Ziva swatted him with her tea towel and he scooped her up, depositing her on her own sofa, laughter crinkling his eyes.

When he turned back from finishing the pots, Ziva was examining the paperwork for his name change. He gulped and sauntered confidently over, determined not to show his nerves.

“Do you have a pen?” He asked, but his voice cracked.

Ziva produced one. She handed it to him without speaking, and watched as he began the process of filling it in. Minutes passed in silence, and then Ziva spoke suddenly.

“I’m proud of you.”

Tony smiled at her uncertainly. He was pleased, but he didn’t know what to say. He busied himself with the form again, suddenly self-conscious, and Ziva watched him with dark eyes, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

A fortnight later, Tony cracked his eyes open and squinted at his phone on the nightstand, which was ringing obnoxiously loudly. He sighed and sat up, reaching the short distance across the single bed to pluck it and answer the call.

“DiNozzo,” he grunted.

“Tony. It’s Tim.”

“McBrighteyed, it’s not even six am.”

“I know, Tony. Vance is pulling me and Ziva on some protection detail. Chicago. I asked if I should brief Gibbs or if he had and he told me he didn’t need Gibbs’s permission… I don’t think he’s told him.”

Tony’s brain was turning over slowly. “So… why are you talking to me?”

“Because I’m not going to defy the director and tell Gibbs myself, but I refuse to go anywhere without telling my senior.”

“McFlatterer, did you just call me your senior?”

“You are, Tony,” McGee’s voice sounded impatiently through Tony’s phone. “Gotta go, I’m on a clock. Bye.”

He hung up. Tony stared, bemused, at the phone screen and shrugged, lying back down and sighing comfortably. After a moment’s pause, he opened a message to McGee and, before he could second-guess himself, typed and sent a short missive.

_Watch out for each other. This might be more than it seems._

* * *

  
“You were right,” McGee said quietly, much later, with the case concluded. “There was more going on.”

Tony shrugged. “I guess. Gut feeling says there still is.” He glanced meaningfully at Vance’s office door, which concealed him and Gibbs, and then through the floor in the general direction of autopsy, where they both knew Ducky was going over the body again. Tim raised an eyebrow and nodded.

“I’m heading out.” He clapped Tony on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow."

* * *

Ziva ran down the stairs after the lift doors closed on Tony and their witness for a second time, and shadowed her partner as he went through the process of releasing her.

Once he was done, she watched him look at his phone, chewing his lip, and chose that moment to approach him.

“You were right about there being more going on,” she told him.

Tony jumped and looked up. “Yeah,” he agreed.

“Gibbs asked Ducky to re-examine the body. He’s just reported,” Ziva informed him. “The body had surgery to reattach a retina in his right eye.” She pointed to her own, and Tony studied the fingertip and her dark eye intently, filing the information away for later. He jerked his chin.

“Interesting. Boss man must have a theory.” He looked back at his phone.

“Something wrong?” Ziva asked, indicating it.

“No. Maybe.” Tony shrugged. “The news is reporting a big investigation that has led to three senior people in two different banks being sacked, and two of them are facing criminal charges.”

Ziva raised an eyebrow. “And that’s relevant because…?”

“One of the banks is the one I use. It seems…”

“Coincidental?” Ziva asked. “The timing is indeed suspicious.” She remembered seeing a familiar silver head enter a bank a couple of weekends ago. “Which banks?” She asked, feigning curiousity, and as Tony named two, she suppressed a smirk. _Gibbs tipped them off._

“What if I did this?” Tony asked worriedly.

“You didn’t. You didn’t start an investigation. Even if you did, who cares? They got paid too much anyway, and they were clearly doing bad things.”

Tony glanced at her. “I have to call Senior,” he told her, hoping she’d understand.

“See if he’s implicated?” Ziva considered him for a moment, then shrugged. “If it would make you feel better, but if he was, he’d have called you for bailing out. Anyway, this isn’t all about you, they wouldn’t have dismissed three seniors and brought criminal charges just for that. It must be bigger.”

Tony considered that for a moment. Seeing the truth in it, he blew out a long breath and smiled. “Thanks.” He shoved his phone in his pocket. “You’re right.”

Ziva fell into step beside him. “So, what are you going to do?”

Tony ambled slowly towards his car. “You’re gonna need to be a little more specific. Tonight? Tomorrow? With Gibbs? With life?”

Ziva smirked. “With the witness.”

Tony frowned. “Erm… nothing?”

“You seemed…close. In the elevator.”

“She was just giving me some advice. I’ll probably never see her again.” Tony felt his face burn and was glad of the darkness. He leaned an elbow on the roof of his car as they arrived.

“Hm,” Ziva hummed, cocking her head, but she chose not to comment. “And what about with the money?”

Tony went momentarily cold. “What money?” He asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. He still hadn’t told Ziva or McGee - or anyone besides Gibbs - that his inheritance would be a net positive gain.

“Just the money you will be able to save when your father cannot get hold of it any more.”

Tony relaxed. “I dunno. Buy cheaper clothes, throw less stuff out, for a start. The extra money will be pretty odd to have, but… save, I guess. For retirement. For vacations. Maybe for kids, if I ever have any.” He shrugged. “I need to change my whole mindset. I’ve always had money that needs spending quickly, but sometimes haven’t had enough to buy the bigger things - I have too much and not enough all at once, you know? But now I’ll have more stability.”

Ziva smiled. “Maybe you’ll finally grow up a bit,” she pointed out. Tony glared at her and she laughed, patting his chest. “Goodnight, Tony.”

“Night, Zi.” He smiled down at her and kissed her cheek, then turned away to pull his car door open.

* * *

  
Gibbs eyed the stairs, knowing feet would start down them momentarily.

“DiNozzo,” he greeted, emptying a jar and adding alcohol.

“Hey, boss.” Tony sat on the bottom step.

“What’s on your mind?”

There was a short silence. Gibbs deposited the jar next to Tony’s foot, getting the ghost of a smile in response, and continued to outline letters carefully.

“A news story that broke today.” Tony finally answered. “About corruption in two of America’s biggest banks.”

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. “Yours?” He asked, and Tony snorted.

“You know it was. You reported it. I saw you go in when Ziva and I were having lunch.”

“Ya think reporting corruption to a single D.C. branch would see the higher-ups sacked two weeks on?” he asked gruffly. “Nah. Got a call from them, they needed more paperwork. Since I got no cards or loans.”

Tony felt suddenly stupid. “Oh. Right.” He scooped up his jar and drank.

“But I called Tobias and gave an anonymous tip. Kept your name out of it. Just to see what they dug up.”

Tony choked on the smooth liquid and it burned in his throat. He wiped away what spilled down his chin, and tried to find the words to express his anger, betrayal…

He couldn’t. Somewhere in his chest was a blossoming warmth. The knowledge that someone was looking out for him.

To his horror, tears started in his eyes. He blinked furiously.

“Thanks, boss.” He was glad he could blame the cracks in his voice on the coughing fit he’d just had.

Gibbs laid down his pencil and strode towards him, clapping him on the shoulder and sitting beside him. “Got your six, DiNozzo.”

“I- I know.” Tony smiled.

* * *

Four weeks later, a fancy certificate and flurry of paperwork arrived, proclaiming Tony’s new name. It was routed quietly through Vance’s office and changes to all NCIS paperwork happened surreptitiously, completed by one Eric Beale, who - besides having the highest security clearance available - was an invisible online presence due to the OSP’s undercover specialty. The bank accounts in Tony’s name were changed by the same invisible presence, with no paper trail remaining for them in any other name. New IDs arrived, gradually trickling in. The inheritance money arrived, and Ziva caught Tony at his desk, practicing a new signature which flourished almost as fancily as the old one.

Gibbs stopped working on his boat for just enough time to create a box with no discernible opening or hinges. A few well-placed taps, with the right strength and in just the right places, slid various pieces into place to reveal its interior, and there, Tony stashed every document which contained his old name, and every document pertaining to the change. The box went in the drawer in Gibbs’s basement, with the files he kept for emergencies - most recently added, the one on Leon Vance.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony was frustrated. He'd changed his _name_ , and still the banks had trouble differentiating him from his father? Senior could no longer take money from his accounts, and had not done so, but _still_ , the incompetent fools on the other end of the phone couldn't verify his identity from his name and date of birth. _How frustratingly typical_.

Granted, they probably didn't have too many DiNozzos, and a significant proportion of his frustration could probably be attributed to the fact that he was trying, very hard, to make them understand without verbalising his middle name in front of a very clearly listening McGee. McDetails, McSwitchedOn, McNosey McGee - an incredibly strong investigator who would, of course, notice the change.

He didn't fail to notice Ziva's wide smile when she got the update from McGee and read between the lines, for she did know of his name change, of course. Her interest in what exactly he needed the money for only served to further irritate him, however. _He ignored the voice that asked him whether he was irritated with her curiousity, or the juvenile nature of the answer. It only got louder when she asked him, at the crime scene, whether he was too old for Spring Break. Given that he now had the money to go, he saw no reason why he shouldn't - even if the whole idea of it reminded him of times long past, and a picture of an ex-Secret Service Agent who once won a wet t-shirt contest._

His mood was worsened by his father arriving unannounced and flirting with Ziva, who - Tony was mildly pleased and slightly disappointed to note - was doing an admirable job of trying to act charmed. She knew about his thieving, as did Gibbs, and for all Ziva fought for words, Tony could see the anger behind them, and hoped - as he'd once asked her, over a year ago when he solved the issue - that she'd keep a lid on it.

McGee, however, thought it was hilarious. And Tony almost wanted to tell him, to wipe the smirk from his face, but he just couldn't do it because some part of him still loved his father, still respected the position he had as parent, and also because - now the problem had gone away - he was ashamed that he'd let it go on so long. He suddenly understood why Abby didn't tell any of them about Mikel Mauher.

Tony wasn't sure, when he reflected on it, why he'd mentioned his father being on the account as a trustee. He wasn't, he never had been - and Tony saying so simply handed him a pass to justify his use of the money he'd taken. After his father had left town, Tony hated himself for chickening out of the conversation they were both dancing around - because the trouble at the bank, this time, was a simple and idiotic mistake on the bank's part. Senior even seemed to be pushing for the conversation to happen, although whether it was to apologise or re-disown him, Tony wasn't sure.

" _We haven't seen each other in a long time._ Really?" He mumbled to himself after their brief conversation in the bullpen. He was staring at his reflection in the mirror in the head, scanning his features and mentally searching every part of himself to work out how he wanted this dinner to go. "That's because instead of coming to visit me when I almost died, _you emptied my bank accounts_." He squinted. "So why was I worried that something was wrong?"

His reflection stared wordlessly back and he heaved a sigh before throwing his paper towel into the bin with a perfect loop shot and moving sluggishly back towards the bullpen. _He knows,_ Tony thought. _He knows I've changed my name. Why else would he have come all the way here?_

He hated himself for breaking protocol and telling his father about the assassination attempt. He hated that still, a stern look from his father could do more damage to the agency's security than any sum of money or any amount of pain and torture. In that moment, he hated everything about the man before him, but mostly, he hated everything that man had made him. So much so, that he missed the glint of opportunity he recognised in his father's eyes at the mention of Prince Omar's impending visit.

Of course, it made sense once he and Ziva found him typing the message the NSA flagged in the Adam's House Business Centre. Ziva, despite her anger with him over his stealing, looked as utterly bamboozled as he did over his father's potential involvement here, but of course - _of course_ \- the old man had taken the opportunity as he saw it.

That night, Tony couldn't face Ziva. Emotionally exhausted after his father showing up unannounced, getting involved in his work, and the intense discussions they'd shared, he needed a breather. Ziva, for all he loved her, would not provide that. They'd had plans, but he texted her to cancel and sat instead on the bottom step of his boss's basement, staring at the wall, listening to the rasp of the tool Gibbs was using, pondering the day.

_What did his father mean when he suggested they talk more often? Was that and his declaration of love an apology of sorts, or a way to worm back into his son's bank accounts? Did he know Tony had changed his name, or just that he'd blocked him from his money somehow? There had been an awkward undercurrent of knowledge; he knew that Tony knew he'd stolen from him, and Tony knew that he knew that Tony knew… so why did he feel the need to pay? Did his father know it was him? And how did Gibbs know he'd paid?_

_Come to that, how did Gibbs know he'd be stopping by and have a plate prepared already?_

Tony's head was swimming with one too many beers and steak with no side to mop it up. He dropped it into his hands, unable to untangle his emotions. His last thought before he dozed off right there on the steps was _at least I use the family talents - acting and conning - for good. At least I hope I do._

Gibbs glanced over at his senior field agent and sighed quietly. The kid was about as wound up over his father as Gibbs himself was, or indeed Gibbs's father was about his old friend LJ. Gibbs wasn't sure he understood Tony's actions in paying for the old man, but he understood why he didn't want to get him locked up. He also had a funny feeling that the cruise was a welcome casualty, since they both knew Tony had more money than a year's cruise could cost; in fact, something told him that Kate Todd had more to do with missing the fraternity event than an unexpected bill could have.

A sudden, uninvited memory flashed into his mind; heat rising off the tarmac, a curious McGee glancing over his shoulder into a rattling goods lift containing Gibbs and a tall figure, and a story - an abstract story about a lieutenant in the military police who buried the evidence that would have convicted a gunnery sergeant for murder. An abstract story which, with the knowledge Gibbs had, solidified into his own life. A story that changed his entire perception of the world.

He swore to himself that if the opportunity arose, he would tell just as abstract a story as Nate Getz had, almost a year ago, to Tony's father. A story about a friend of his who paid his dad's hotel bill even though his dad never did anything for him. A story which - while seemingly random, and in the middle of a tense situation four years later - did the same for Tony and Senior as Nate did for Gibbs.

Gibbs made himself that promise, in his basement that night with DiNozzo snoozing on the stairs; that one day, he would give the same gift that OSP's operational psychologist gave to him. Even if the person he aimed to give it to didn't deserve it.

He owed it to Macy.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony was still thinking a little about Ziva’s father calling in the lift, and her expression when he joked that his father too would be calling any second. He was still thinking about her tone of voice when she asked, _“What if one of those men is dead?”_ He still didn’t want to know the answer. He wanted to be back in that elevator, not facing this reality - the reality where people were dead, injured, scarred. Where Ducky was sick and Jimmy’s wedding was ruined and Gibbs had stabbed Dearing only after he’d blown up an entire FBI squad.

“Director Vance.” Tony’s voice was heavy, lead-lined with exhaustion. It had taken them time and effort to find Dearing, and since, sleep had been hard to come by. Too much had been lost. They’d nearly lost Gibbs, Abby and McGee. It kept him awake. And of course, his father still hadn’t called.

“DiNozzo. How are you holding up?”

“Fine, sir. Physically.” Tony glanced over at the reconstruction works going on behind him, and grimaced. “It looks… bizarrely similar to its original state.”

Vance nodded, leaning against the railings shoulder-to-shoulder with Tony. “Partly because it is faster, given that the construction orders require no change. Partly in defiance of the destruction Dearing wreaked. And partly in an effort to heal.”

Tony struggled with himself for a moment. “Will anything be different?” He asked quietly. “Well, everything will, but also…nothing.”

Vance laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know,” he said uncharacteristically quietly. “It seems kind of wrong, doesn’t it?”

“Is there at least going to be a memorial, or a plaque, or…or something?”

The director lifted a shoulder. “I have asked, but the powers that be are loath to direct funding to a memorial when there are so many national memorials in DC already. All of those fallen will be added to existing memorials…adding another is, apparently, surplus to requirements. The extreme prejudice order was their only grace.”

There was a moment of silence between the two men, and then Vance clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll heal,” he said, sounding like he was attempting to convince himself as much as the agent he was comforting. “All of us. In time.”

He strode away.

Tony wandered back towards his car, which he’d been aiming for in the first place, and leaned on it absentmindedly. His fingers itched to hold a pencil, an idea forming, and suddenly he was driving, trying to hold onto the image.

Three hours later, he pulled into his boss’s driveway, sketchpad clutched under his arm.

“Boss?” He called through the door as soon as he’d opened it.

“Yeah, DiNozzo.” Gibbs, unusually, was in his sparse living room, relaxing into his sofa, a black and white film playing quietly in the background and a book on his knee.

“I have an idea.” Tony threw himself down on the couch and Gibbs lifted his coffee hurriedly to stop it sloshing. “Oops.” Tony mumbled, and Gibbs raised an eyebrow as he deposited it and his book on the coffee table.

“An idea?”

“I talked to Vance,” Tony elaborated. “About HQ, and it’s going to look just the same, and it doesn’t seem right, so I… I think there should be a memorial.”

Gibbs remained still for a moment, surprised by the turn the conversation had taken. Then he slowly nodded. “Something inside the Navy Yard,” he agreed, turning slightly to face his senior field agent. Behind his eyes, the feeling of his knife - the knife he’d left with Cole, and pulled from the mangled wreckage of the Director’s car - plunging into Dearing’s abdomen, like the shard of glass into McGee’s, flashed.

“Yeah. But Vance said the higher-ups aren’t convinced because there are national memorials already in DC and why add another? But I don’t think it needs to be that fancy.”

He held out his sketch pad and Gibbs raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t drawn much since Katie died,” he said quietly.

“No. But I thought this was as good a time as any.” Tony shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, and an image of Kate Todd’s angry expression as he shoved a magazine under her nose and asked for the model’s measurements wavered in his mind. She’d been fiery from the moment they met aboard Air Force One.

“She’d be pleased.” Gibbs flashed him a rare smile and Tony smiled hesitantly back.

Gibbs flicked the sketch pad open to the first page - testament to how little it was used - and saw a rough sketch of some sort of mounted and ruined object with a scribbling line through it. On the next page was a similar image, but on the next -

Gibbs blinked, held the sketch pad further away, and then brought it closer. Then he put it gently down on the table and scrubbed at his face, taking a steadying breath.

“I don’t know if it’s too simple, but that was sort of the point, and I haven’t added any colour but I thought it would be quite plain and… well, just… a bold statement really. A memorial and defiance in one.” Tony rabbited, rubbing his hands together nervously. “But I could try some other designs out, and maybe add names, if you think…”

“It’s perfect.” Gibbs shook his head. “Their names will go on the other memorials. This is… this is perfect.” He took another deep, slightly steadier, breath and looked up. “You’re not going to get approval for this.”

Tony sighed. “I know. That’s why I thought… well, I wanted to see what you thought of the design, and if you knew anyone who could make it. And then I thought if we got some quotes, I could give the design and the funding to Vance anonymously, and it would be easy to push it all through.”

Gibbs sat back. “You want to fund it?”

“I don’t know what to do with that money, Gibbs. I’ve had it for years now and done nothing other than donate to Abby’s charity and buy people nice gifts. Without even telling them. Look at Palmer’s wedding…nevermind.” Tony frowned at the thought of the spoiled nuptials. “Anyway, it’s just sat there collecting interest. I didn’t want to lose it and it’s great to have, but there’s nothing much I want or need and this will barely dint it anyway… but of course, I’ll need you to countersign it. My dad hasn't even called since the explosion and I know he knows that he can't access my accounts any more...”

Tony was studying his hands, evidently uncomfortable talking about money and feelings, just as he always had been. Gibbs raised an eyebrow, and then smiled.

“I think it’s a brilliant idea, Tony. For NCIS, for you, and in defiance of your father. As long as you’re sure.”

Tony nodded resolutely, and Gibbs clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let’s start getting in touch with some friends.” Gibbs glanced back at the sketch and pulled the pencil out of the ringbinding. He added a line to the end of the plaque, and Tony read it, raised an eyebrow, and smiled.

* * *

Tony fidgeted at the queue counter of the bank, waiting for a teller to call him forward. It was just three days after he’d showed his design to Gibbs, but - as his boss had rightly pointed out - the materials required were being removed and so they needed to move fairly quickly. The quotes were in, and the person who was likely to be doing the work was ex-Navy, and incredibly proud to be given the opportunity to create such a meaningful memorial. Gibbs trusted him to remain tight-lipped on Tony’s identity, and he was confident that he could recreate the sketch.

“Who’s next, please?” The teller shook Tony from his thoughts and he stepped forward, Gibbs at his shoulder.

“Hi. I’d, er, like to make a large withdrawal.” Tony gulped nervously. “If it’s possible, as a cheque. Payable to someone else.”

He handed over his card, and the staff member checked it. “Certainly, sir. I have two signatories required for this account. Could I have both your ID’s, please?”

Tony and Gibbs handed them over and she checked them with a smile, dark lipstick that Abby would be proud of stretching to show the light shade of her lips beneath.

She handed them back, her smile becoming impossibly wider. “Who do you need the cheque to be payable to?”

Tony shuffled from one foot to another. “John Tanner.”

“And how much does the cheque need to be for?”

There was a long silence and Gibbs stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Three hundred thousand dollars.”

Tony relaxed as the huge amount was spoken, without him needing to open his mouth. Tanner had estimated less than half that, but Gibbs knew he’d underestimated, and they had agreed that he would donate whatever was left to the Navy-Marine Corps Relief Society anyway. Tony had wanted to make the cheque more, but they had compromised.

The teller blinked. “I’ll need to get approval for a transaction that size,” she hedged. Gibbs shrugged.

“Well, yeah,” he said as if it were obvious - which, of course, it really was.

She stood and disappeared from view.

“You alright, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asked.

“Yeah, boss. Yeah. I think… I think this is gonna help. You know. With the moving on thing.”

“I think so, too.” Gibbs wasn't sure whether Tony meant from the bombing, or from hoping for his father's love, or both, but his words applied regardless.

A balding man appeared behind the counter. “Anthony DiNozzo?” He asked as their previous teller appeared at his elbow.

“Yeah.” Tony stepped forward.

“I’ll need to check your ID again.”

Tony slid his license under the glass, and once it had been returned Gibbs stepped forward to do the same.

Fifteen minutes later, they were emerging from the air conditioned bank into the heat of DC in July, Tony’s wallet feeling heavy with the weight of an impressive cheque, his bank account barely noticing the difference.

“I guess now is the harder bit. Convincing the brass,” he mumbled.

Gibbs clapped him on the shoulder. “I can do that. Leon knows you changed your name. He’ll put two and two together if you go.”

Tony smiled gratefully and handed over the cheque, surprisingly relieved to be rid of it.

* * *

Director Vance was rarely speechless, but this was one of those times. He sat down heavily behind his desk and once again shuffled through the papers Gibbs had placed there. A sketch of a chunk of bricks, mounted on a marble base with a plaque; a cheque for three hundred thousand dollars from an unspecified bank account; a quote for materials and labour from the person named on the cheque; a signed document assuring him that the leftover money would be donated to a Navy charity; and a business card for the same individual.

“But… who paid?”

“That is irrelevant, Leon. It wasn’t me. An individual designed it and offered the funding, I approached an old friend with the required skills, and now I’m here asking you to convince your higher-ups that we all need this.”

“I know we do, Gibbs. I know we do,” Vance sighed heavily, and scrubbed at his forehead. “With the money in place, I don’t think it will be a problem. But they will want to know who the donor was.”

“Tough. They’re anonymous for a reason.” Gibbs softened his stance slightly. “Leon, anonymous donations aren’t unusual. With the rest going to charity, they can’t argue on that basis. The donor has a strong Naval connection, isn’t that enough?”

“Of course it is.” Vance lifted his head from his hands and smiled. “Of course it is.”

Seeing a sheen of tears in his eyes, Gibbs turned to stride away and give his boss some privacy. The sheen of tears in his own eyes were irrelevant, of course, to this decision. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

* * *

Three months later, the finished NCIS Headquarters in the Navy Yard, Washington DC, looked just as it always had, if less weather-worn. However, outside, a block of the old wall - the weatherbeaten, faded red bricks, with mortar still holding them together - stood, mounted in white marble, in the grass. It was an odd shape, blown apart by the bomb in Leon’s car, and Gibbs stood before it, remembering the ceremony during which it had been erected and the building officially reopened. He scanned the American flags stuck into the grass before it, one of which he himself had placed, and read the plaque, as he did every time he passed.

The bricks had been reinforced to ensure the memorial stood the test of time, and the marble it was set into extended a ways behind it, making sure it stayed upright. The plaque was black and bronze, simple, but - just as Tony had desired - it spoke volumes of the defiance and spirit left behind.

MAY 15, 2012

A DAY OF LOSS.

A DAY OF SORROW.

A DAY TO REMEMBER

AND VOW THIS WILL

NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN.

The last two lines were much less poetic than Tony’s original design, but Gibbs felt his addition was justified and necessary, if not one hundred percent eloquent.

Gibbs glanced around the Navy Yard, where his team was at the coffee cart and Leon was striding by, talking into his cell. Still, only he, Tony and (he suspected) Vance were aware of the memorial’s designer and financier - but he knew, without a doubt, that it was a comfort, a reminder, to everyone.

He’d caught Ducky - who was still on medical leave - standing by it, guilt-stricken that he wasn’t here to help despite being glad that he hadn’t had to autopsy more friends.

He’d caught Jimmy, whose wedding anniversary would always be a day of both joy and sorrow, standing statue-still in reflection of how much he’d learned and grown since joining NCIS and how hard the clear-up had been.

He’d seen Tony, scanning it with a critical eye but ultimately bowing his head to respect the dead. The exhaustion, the weight of maybes, had not left him until the memorial had been placed, and Gibbs knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t have healed without it.

He’d seen Leon, struggling to come to terms with the fact that his car was the tool used to cause this tragedy. Struggling to relieve the responsibility he felt for all the deaths and injuries.

He’d seen Ziva, on her knees, saying a prayer at the memorial, her Star of David clenched in her fist, lips moving impossibly fast as she chanted in unintelligible Hebrew. Adding an Israeli flag to the stars and stripes.

He’d seen McGee, staring unseeingly at the bricks, absently rubbing the scar on his stomach as he relieved the panic in his and his boss’s eyes when the glass shard had been discovered.

He’d seen Dorneget, shoulders bowed, fist clenched at his jaw, frowning fiercely at the memorial as he considered the events leading up to the explosion. Gibbs wondered if he’d ever go to the dentists again.

And he’d seen Abby, the only one to openly weep, black lace parasol in one hand and Bert clutched in the other. She’d watched one of the dead covered in a yellow sheet as she sat on a kerb, being checked over for injuries. She’d sobbed on his shoulder as they laid on the floor of her lab, breath knocked out of the both of them, glass shattered around them. He suspected she was often thinking of Jimmy, when she looked at that memorial; thinking of the wedding as much as the explosion. She was just positive like that.

The memorial gave them all somewhere to go, for none of them would willingly seek out a psychologist. It was a place and a thing to comfort them all and remind them of why they did their jobs - to prevent repeats of such events. To protect people, even if they were targets as a result.

He found more comfort in it than he could ever express, and he knew he wasn’t the only one. He was just glad he knew who to thank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas to all who celebrate it, and thank you all for the support shown to this story!


End file.
